


Boxing Day

by mycapeisplaid



Series: Corpus Hominis Extras [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Fur, Humor, M/M, Silly, texture play, women's clothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 17:05:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1274335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycapeisplaid/pseuds/mycapeisplaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Corpus Hominis 'verse.  The first year of their newfound sexual relationship did wonders for John Watson.  He'd rediscovered his mojo, for one.  He also learned out to branch out a bit.  One had to, he supposed, if one were going to be Sherlock Holmes' bedmate.  There are some things, though, you just can't predict.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boxing Day

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains fur. As in real fur. And a thing made from a dead animal. If that offends you, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE SKIP THIS FIC. It is, however, a funny fic, and there is some shameless porn, which may balance out the fact that there is fur (My lovely beta/copartner-in-crime BettySwallocks said to say “it worked for me” even though she is adamantly against the wearing of fur). Personally, I am ambivalent on the subject. This fic is the result of three circumstances: it was Snogandagrope who mentioned chinchilla fur, I’d written that Sherlock has a faux-fur aversion in the vanilla sex piece, and then I rewatched the ep where Sherlock’s got the rabbit collar on the Belstaff. The stars aligned; porn commenced. I’m truly sorry. Kind of.
> 
> Also, I began writing this before S3 aired. I had no idea that they would make Mrs. Hudson a dancer. 
> 
> And finally, there has been several chinchilla-based tumblr things around the fandom the past few days. I don’t usually have time to tumblr, but I saw those and thought, it’s a sign that I’d best finish this fic and post it. I don’t know who made the manip of Sherlock in the chinchilla coat/blanket thing, but, um, yeah, just picture that while you read this.

BOXING DAY

Years later, when they would look back at this particular event as one of their...more interesting...sexual experiences, John would maintain that he really didn’t plan for a particular object to see a bit of Holmes-Watson shenanigans. He certainly didn’t _steal_ that object. He would also maintain that had he known the outcome he would have said no when Mrs. Hudson asked him for a small favour.

Sherlock would say otherwise.

 

***

 

It was supposed to be simple. John didn’t mind helping Mrs. Hudson, not at all, really. It was just that what he thought was an hour’s worth of work had turned into an all-morning project. 

Mrs. Hudson’s sitting room, usually so immaculate, was covered with stacks of dusty junk. It was as if she had turned the contents of every drawer and cupboard in the place inside out. “Just a few things,” she’d said, and then opened the door to such spectacular disarray that John couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows.

Their landlady had a truly appalling amount of clutter. Every item, even those she wanted thrown out, seemed to have a story that she simply must tell. As he listened, however, John realised Mrs. Hudson wasn’t simply finding a way to live a simpler life. Sherlock’s powers of deduction must be somehow rubbing off on him because it suddenly made sense. Mrs. Hudson was feeling her age, feeling the need to cast off some of her unnecessary weight, like a hot air balloon struggling to keep afloat. 

John suddenly remembered a newly single Harry, drunk on grief and cheap Chardonnay, as she ruthlessly chucked everything that reminded her of Clara out of their house. In the process she’d lost her degree certificate, her favourite childhood teddy, and a birthday card she’d written to their mum when she was six. He didn’t want Mrs Hudson to have any regrets. So he resigned himself to helping, sorting items into Give Away; Trash; Keep; and What-the-Hell-is-This.

The donation pile was the largest by far. Most of it was clothing, still in good condition but out of fashion (Mrs. Hudson was a classy dresser, after all), along with linens; decorative porcelain animals that someone, somewhere might love; a stack of bodice-ripper novels; a Victorian lampshade; a crochet toilet-roll holder, and some unwanted hats and gloves. 

They both had a good laugh over the items to be binned: an appalling pair of 70s curtains, sheer orange with brown dangly-ball trim; threadbare towels; a stained string vest; broken sunglasses; two headless Barbie dolls and a tin full of seed packets that were at least a decade old (she’d wondered where they’d gone). 

The items with sentimental stories John kept, and even a few items that Mrs. Hudson said she didn’t want found their way back. A plain brown envelope revealed delicate notepaper from the 1950s. A book of children’s poetry published during WWII. Black and white postcards of Paris, Rome and Tunisia, sent to ‘My dearest Martha’ with love from ‘Daddy’ in faded sepia ink . Clip-on mock-pearl earrings. An enameled pill box, lined in velvet and smelling of jasmine. 

And then there were the things that John didn’t know what to do with, but thought might amuse Sherlock when he needed distraction. A small, disintegrating stuffed owl. An old tin of mints containing a mummified mouse (Mrs. Hudson claimed she had no idea). Miniature bottles of Scotch, Tia Maria and Creme de Menthe, date unknown. A man’s black leather jacket. A telephone directory so old that Scotland Yard’s number was WHI 1212. 

After three hours, they’d exhausted the stores of things she no longer needed, and four large boxes were moved to the hallway, taped and ready for dropping off at the nearest Oxfam shop, along with the one that held the assortment of strange miscellany that Mrs. Hudson said John could take. He was helping himself to some shortbread from the tin she kept in the kitchen when she came in with a scruffy brown suitcase.

“It’s time to get rid of these, too,” she said, placing the case on the table. 

John flicked the catches with a finger. Something sparkled inside. Curious, he opened the lid as Mrs. Hudson looked fondly at the contents. 

John wiped his hands on his trousers, reached into the case, and held up a beautiful beaded dress. She took it from him, held it up to her ageing body, and laughed. 

“Oh dear. Don’t think I could fit into this if I tried.”

John turned his attention to the rest of the contents - it was full of elegant gowns, but not the kind a woman might wear for a night at the opera. It finally dawned on him. 

“Mrs. Hudson, you were a dancer!”

“Oh, why, yes of course, John.” A smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Quite good, really.”

“Well, you can’t just give these away. These are important.”

“Not any more.” She placed the black sparkly number on the table and pulled out another, this one gold with dangly beading. “They’ve just been taking up space.”

John watched her as she unpacked the suitcase, which contained a three more tiny dance numbers, a few pairs of worn, embellished dance shoes with heels, some horrible 80s leotard and tights combination, costume jewellery, and then, at the bottom, wrapped in cream tissue paper, a grey fur muff.

“Oh, this thing,” said Mrs. Hudson distastefully, holding the hand warmer. “Never used it. A gift from an admirer. There was a matching coat at one point.”

“Didn’t you like it?”

“Didn’t like _him_ , dear.” 

She handed the muff to John. Funny accessory, really. He couldn’t imagine it had ever been fashionable. It was soft, though. He stroked a hand over it, suddenly reminded of a conversation he’d had with Sherlock not too long ago. 

On one exceptionally cold day in December, Sherlock had pulled from the depths of his wardrobe a fur collar and cuffs and fastened them to his greatcoat before they headed of to the suburbs of north London on a case. They were both half-frozen by the time they finished questioning the greenkeeper of Copper Beeches Golf Club regarding a suspicious death on the 8th tee, and when their minicab finally turned up, Sherlock hunkered down in his seat and pulled the collar up over his mouth and nose.

John furrowed his brow, remembering the day Sherlock had binned a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs citing an extreme case of the heebie-jeebies. “That’s real fur.”

A sly smile crept over his lover’s face. John swore he heard _obviously_ being telepathically beamed into his brain. 

“It’s the texture of synthetic furs I find repulsive. I never said I disliked the real thing.” And as if to demonstrate, he rubbed the collar against his cheek. “That feels rather lovely.”

It really shouldn’t have been arousing, but in the time they’d been together, John found that Sherlock could do something as human as sneeze and somehow his body would find it sexy as hell. He wondered if the novelty of their relationship as lovers would ever wear off. 

“What kind is it?”

“Coney. Or, to use the better known term, rabbit.”

“You’re going to get hate mail from animal rights activists.”

“ _You’re_ going to get the hate mail.”

“It doesn’t glow in the dark, does it?” John queried.

They looked at each other and laughed. 

“Daydreaming, John?” asked Mrs. Hudson, gently taking the muff back and rewrapping it.

“What? No. Sorry.” John watched her closely as she gently folded and repacked the dresses. He tried to think like Sherlock, who would be able to work out exactly when Mrs. Hudson was dancing and what she was dancing to -- and with -- by the cut of the dresses and type of beads adorning them. John was able to tell nothing except for the fact that Mrs. Hudson clearly had fond memories of a long-forgotten passion. He could picture her as a young woman, lithe and feisty, getting lost in the music of the time, maybe even on stage. 

“Look, are you sure you want to get rid of these?”

Mrs. Hudson smiled. “Yes. It’s time.”

“You really should keep them.”

She smiled sadly and shook her head. “I really shouldn’t.”

“Well, could you donate them? To a theatre or something?”

“Oh! That’s a lovely idea. I know! The Tricycle Youth Theatre. Up in Kilburn.”

They finished packing the suitcase, and Mrs. Hudson put the muff back on top. “Never liked that yucky thing.”

John carried the box to the hall where he placed it with the rest of the giveaways, bid farewell to Mrs. Hudson, and picked up the box of miscellany he thought Sherlock would like. He was halfway up the stairs when the tattered brown suitcase caught his eye again. In a completely impulsive move, John opened the box of dance costumes and removed the fur muff. He tucked it inside his own box, and, feeling slightly guilty, carried the lot upstairs.

Sherlock was indeed up and occupied, complicated chemistry apparatus bubbling away on the kitchen table. He hadn’t washed or dressed, opting instead for his dressing gown over his pyjamas, hair sticking out from under safety goggles as he wielded a pipette. John smiled fondly at him and set the box down, which interrupted the detective’s thoughts momentarily. 

“What’s in there?”

“Can’t you deduce it?”

“Mrs. Hudson decluttering, then?”

“Indeed. Thought you might want to take a look at some of it. You know, if you’re feeling bored.”

“Busy.”

“Yes, I see that. Good. Just in case. Sherlock, did you know Mrs. Hudson was a dancer?”

“Of course.”

“Yes, of course. What, figure it out by her shoes or something?”

Sherlock gave John a sideways glance. “Pictures on the mantlepiece. Three of them.”

John hadn’t noticed. As usual. “Ballet?”

“Cabaret.” 

“Really? Wow.” 

Sherlock smiled and went back to his experiment. 

“Shit, I’m supposed to be at Greg’s place,” said John, looking at his watch. “Kick-off’s at 3pm.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me to come with you?” asked Sherlock as John shrugged into his coat and found his gloves. It was bloody cold out there.

“Are you coming with me?” John replied. 

Sherlock smirked. “No. Now come and kiss me goodbye.”

John did, and promised to be back by 8pm. He made it to Lestrade’s, and enjoyed a perfectly normal afternoon, the box he’d brought up from Mrs. Hudson’s completely forgotten.

 

***

Meanwhile, Sherlock was putting his brain through a regular workout, attempting to identify Thames river crossings between Kew and Tower Bridge by reference to the chemical composition of sludge and silt at each site.

As usual, he had all 25 samples arranged in order from west to east before 4pm. He showered, shaved, picked at a few biscuits, played his violin, and within two hours, was bored and desperately lonely. For John, that was. He tried valiantly to occupy himself by tidying up a bit (boring), washing the sheets on their bed (necessary but even more boring), and seeing if there was anything under the stove that might be worth his attention (sadly, also boring). Then he remembered the box that John brought up from Mrs. Hudson’s. Intrigued, he theatrically dumped the entire contents on the coffee table. The stuffed owl rolled off the table and lost a wing.

There were a few items of interest, particularly a mouse that someone had placed in an ancient tin of sweets, but that, too, was not a cure for boredom. The leather jacket was more stimulating. It was vintage, late 1960s, with a red satin lining. Someone had taken fairly good care of it; the leather was still supple. Sherlock slipped off his dressing gown and tried it on; it fit perfectly. He peered at himself in the mirror, holding his hair back with his hands. He turned this way and that, decided the the jacket was worth keeping as a disguise, shrugged it off, and bent down to pick up the owl, which immediately lost its other wing. He examined it thoroughly, deducing. (Tawny Owl, _Strix aluco_ , glass eyes, natural death, taxidermy likely done in the ‘40s based on the mount, oft-moved, traces of stage makeup on its legs where it was obviously over-handled. Stage prop, then. Amateur production of _A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream._ Now wingless. What a hoot). 

He placed the owl and its wings --he’d fix it later-- on the mantlepiece and turned back to the rest of the box’s contents. It was then that he noticed the item wrapped in tissue. The paper came away in his hands and there was an object he had never held before. He stood staring at it for a moment before it clicked: a muff, Victorian-style. 1950s. Fur. Black silk lining. Extremely high quality. And never worn.

He stroked the fur a few times with the palm of his hand. It was soft, exceptionally so, its various shades of grey, very light silver to nearly smoky blue, pleasing to the eye. Chinchilla, then. He held it to his nose, breathed deeply. No foul odour -- slightly dusty from being in storage, but kept away from damp. He held it to his cheek, savoured its softness. He plunged his hands inside it, held it in front of him like a proper lady. His hands were too big; it was meant for small, delicate digits, but the silk was so smooth and the inside was so warm and suddenly Sherlock was overcome with a compulsion to see how the rest of his skin would react to the sensation of soft fur gliding across it. 

He rubbed it across his face again; pleasurable. Down his neck, then. Also pleasurable. He fondled the handwarmer for a moment more, then peeled off his socks and tried the fur over his feet. Surprisingly pleasurable as well. Hmm. Sherlock held the muff, frowned at it, then placed it on the coffee table and stripped off all of his clothes. Naked, he found the flat cold, so he turned the heating up by more than a reasonable amount, then laid the tartan blanket over the sofa (cold leather against his bare skin didn’t sound appealing) before flopping himself down on his back. 

Since becoming John’s lover, Sherlock had taken quite a bit of interest in the transport: the physicality of his body, so long ignored, proved to be...not boring. He’d learned that a spot behind his ear was particularly sensitive under the application of John’s tongue, and that the backs of his knees were an erogenous zone. He’d known how nearly every part of himself reacted to pain, but learning pleasure was far more intriguing. In the six months or so he and John had been intimate, Sherlock had learned how to balance his libido with the Work, and, with the exception of a few frustrating arguments early on (turned out that a blowjob _could_ actually help untangle the threads of reasoning in the detective’s great brain during a complicated case. Who’d have guessed?) things were going rather well between the two of them.

Currently, Sherlock was not thinking about John; not directly, at least. His current activity was a line of inquiry only. That was, at least, what he told himself. 

So, methodically, a bored Sherlock Holmes set about cataloguing the sensations of fur on every place he could reach on his own body. He closed his eyes, held the muff from one side with four of his fingers inside it -- it _really_ wasn’t made for hands his size -- and rubbed it up his left arm. Then, back down. Better down than going up. The neck, again, for good measure. Yes, still pleasurable. Pectorals? Yes, nice. Abdomen? Slightly ticklish, but still comfortable. A brush over his side made him break out in goose pimples. He changed hands, tried his other arm, found the left side as responsive as the right. Tried his armpits, found them ticklish. 

Legs, then. Keeping his eyes closed and focusing on the sensation of soft fur against his skin, Sherlock lightly dragged the muff up one calf, noticing the sensation of the hair on his legs rubbing against the hair of several unfortunate Australian rodents. Further up, over a thigh, his hip. Soft, warm. It was not unlike John’s hair, when he was occupying the space between Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock let out a soft little sigh, exhaling the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. _John. Between his legs._ Sherlock’s nervous system lit up like a Christmas tree and his penis, which had been lying there flaccid, twitched in interest. So much for science.

 

***

 

John excused himself from Greg’s after a chummy afternoon of beer and football, suddenly feeling the need to go home. He hadn’t received any summoning texts from Sherlock, which was unusual. Feeling happy, full, and a little bit drunk from the last can of lager he really should have declined, John took the tube home. He reviewed their latest case in his mind, trying to think of salient points for his blog. He finally clarified a title in the time he walked from the station to 221B, and he was certainly not thinking about sex, which is why, when he opened the door to the sitting room, he couldn’t help but gape, mouth open, at the scene in front of him.

Before his relationship with great detective of 221B Baker Street finally spilled into the realm of the romantic and sexually intimate, John’s experience with sex aids began and ended with a silk-scarf blindfold and his now-absent pair of faux-fur handcuffs. But John didn’t become a skilled army medic without the ability to learn new skills on the battlefield. Even though he found it initially somewhat embarrassing, within two weeks of opening Sherlock’s X-rated toy cupboard he’d learned how to give as good as he got with the dildo, appreciate the fullness of a butt plug, and enjoy the intensity of a vibrating cock ring. 

Sexual intimacy with Sherlock had a somewhat rejuvenating effect on John as well. People he’d known for years were asking him whether he’d been on holiday, or whether he’d “had some work done”. Hair cut? Lost half a stone? John would laugh and give his standard (and honest) answer: he’d been getting more exercise. He was also the subject of a sometimes frightening devotion by Sherlock, and after a few months of being routinely worshipped in bed by an eager and attentive lover, John had good reason to walk with his head held higher and smile a bit brighter. Dr. Watson had rediscovered his mojo.

However, just because the doctor was branching out didn’t mean that he couldn’t be shocked by unusual or particularly kinky sexual behaviour. 

For there, on the couch, his lover, impossible man that he was, was currently engaged in doing something untoward to...good God, what the fuck was that?

Sherlock was obviously well into it, too, for he didn’t instantly react; it was only when John pointedly cleared his throat that Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he released his hold on whatever he was pushing his dick into and scrambled up on the couch a bit, startled. The offending thing was still there, perched on his crotch like a Palace Guard’s bearskin. John squinted and spluttered and finally realised what it was: the unwanted muff, turned inside out. 

What he wanted to say was something along the lines of, “Christ almighty, I am not actually seeing this” or “What in God’s name are you doing?” or “That’s _Mrs. Hudson’s_ you spectacular pervert!” or, even, “Why couldn’t you have waited!”. 

What he actually did say was, “Sherlock Holmes, you are fucking a muff.”

Then, still in his coat, he crossed the room and sat on the coffee table, folded his hands under his chin, and looked somberly at his lover (who at least had the decency to look embarrassed beneath his fading arousal).

“Um,” said Sherlock, taking a deep breath. “Yes. It would appear so.”

John smiled, then really did lose it. “You’re fucking _a muff_ ,” he laughed. 

Sherlock looked down to where his cock was still proudly wearing a fur coat and, in all seriousness, declared, “I’ve never fucked a muff before.”

“No,” giggled John, “No, you haven’t. Not even close.”

“My penis has previously never been so close to a muff. And this one was too small for my fingers.” Their eyes met. Sherlock blinked at John. “What? _What_? Why are you looking at me like that?”

John laughed. 

He laughed and laughed, and then he laughed some more, until tears streamed down his face. 

“Jesus, Sherlock,” he gasped when he found his breath, “muff…” (gasp) is a common slang word for…” (gasp).

“Yes, I know.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, a smirk on his lips belying his earlier feigned innocence. 

“Jesus Christ. Fucking a muff.”

“I suppose I’d best explain myself.” 

It was at this moment when Sherlock’s erection finally flagged enough that the muff toppled over to the side and rolled onto the floor, which sent John into another fit of giggles. 

Sherlock, now exposed with his penis looking properly ashamed of its earlier enthusiasm, reached for the blanket and shrugged it over his lap. “Well, are you going to just sit there and laugh at me?” His smirk had faded into a pout.

John succumbed to one more fit of laughter before standing up and toeing off his shoes. “From the looks of things, you were pretty into it,” he said as he hung up his coat and took off his cardigan.

“I was cataloguing my sensory reactions to fur.”

“For science, of course.”

“Yes! It started that way. But then you got involved.”

“I _just_ walked in, you twat. You were busy long before I got involved.”

Sherlock tapped his head. “In here,” he said sarcastically.

“Well, far be it for me to interrupt.” John waved a hand at his lover. “Please continue. It was quite a performance.”

“It wasn’t meant to be a _performance_. I was _researching_.” Sherlock huffed and turned his back on John, taking most of the blanket with him and presenting most of his arse to the room.

John sighed, bemused. It was a nice view. Feeling a bit guilty for having a laugh at Sherlock’s expense, John pushed his lover over before sitting next to him. “Hey. I meant it. Research all you want. I suggest, however, that we move this operation to the bedroom, because if Mrs. Hudson or, God forbid, your brother, walks in on _that_ , we’d have a lot of explaining to do.”

Sherlock buried his face deeper into the couch. “Go away.”

“Besides. I’ll bet you couldn’t reach your back, could you? Hm?” John reached down, found the muff, and turned it right-side-out again. His hand fit in it just fine, so he dragged it lightly over the exposed skin of Sherlock’s shoulder. “It’s all fine. Come on. I’ll get your back.”

Sherlock burrowed further into the couch.

“You can make a spreadsheet.”

Nothing.

“It’ll feel fabulous.”

Silence.

“Well, if you are really satisfied with incomplete data...”

After a moment of speculation, Sherlock sat up, twisted himself around as best he could now that he was trapped between John, the blanket, and the couch. He worried his lower lip a moment before deciding John wasn’t teasing, and then leaned in expectantly for a kiss, which John obliged until he himself was feeling a little breathless. 

“Go to the bedroom,” said John. “Be there in a minute.” He got up to let Sherlock gather his blanket and his pride and retreat nude into the kitchen. Then John picked up the muff, turning it over in his hands. The image of Sherlock spread out on the couch pushing his cock into it was still burned into his brain. “Mad bastard,” he muttered aloud. “The both of us.”

 

***

 

“Here?” 

_Trapezius._ “Mmm. 8.”

“What about here?”

 _Tricep._ “Less. A...7.”

“And here?” 

_Back...muscle...whateverit’scalledmomentarilymisplaceddon’tcare._ “Mmmmm. 10.”

“Here?” 

“It’s all good. Just keep going,” Sherlock moaned into the pillow, where he lay face down naked on his bed, John crouched over him, touching him slowly with long, broad strokes of his fur-encased hand. Once John started on his lower back, though, Sherlock gave up all scientific pursuit of knowledge in lieu of simply feeling. It was hypnotic, and Sherlock was lost in a sleepy, warm haze of sensation. John was tracing patterns on his skin, down his torso, over his bum, across his thighs and back up. How many minutes passed this way Sherlock couldn’t calculate for the life of him. A meteor could have destroyed half of London and it would be of no concern to him.

“Cold?” asked John, at length. “Bloody hot in here but you’ve got goose pimples on your backside.”

Sherlock shivered as John traced them with his free hand. “No. Sympathetic nervous system discharge. Lovely.”

“Better than the feather, then?”

Sherlocked huffed a laugh. Last time they’d been adventurous with different textures, John received a heel in the face for his attempt to tantalise his lover with a long peacock feather, which was lobbed right out of the window in frustration (and onto the street where a lucky teenage girl found it, took it home, and stuck it in a vase, completely oblivious to the fact that had tickled the bare bottom of London’s only consulting detective just moments before she picked it up.) “The feather was a torture implement. It deserved what it got.”

“It did, after what you did to my nose.”

Sherlock gathered his energy, flipped over and sat up. He took John’s face in his hands and kissed that nose, very gently. “I love your nose,” he said pointedly, knowing full well that it was John’s least favourite feature. 

“If you tell me it’s cute again, I’ll have to hurt you.” 

John’s nose _was_ cute. It was simply the truth. You couldn’t argue with the truth. Sherlock kissed John’s nose again for good measure before snogging him properly on the mouth. John had discarded his earlier outfit in favour of just his pants and t-shirt. Sherlock’s fingers found the hem, his hand sliding under it. “Be naked,” he implored. “It’s best when you’re naked.” John’s skin was always smooth and warm and glorious against his own.

“Generally true,” replied John, abandoning the muff to pull the shirt over his head and wiggle out of his boxer-briefs. “In this particular milieu, that is.”

Sherlock used the opportunity to recapture the handwarmer. “Don’t worry,” he said after John eyed the thing dubiously, “I’ll be gentle.”

“It’s not gentle I’m concerned about,” John sighed as he snuggled down into the mattress.

“Worried you’ll enjoy it, then?”

“Worried that you’ll let this slip sometime in the wrong company. It’s just a bit kinky. Sex with inanimate objects, Sherlock.”

Sherlock manouvered himself next to John, pushed what would fit of his hand into the muff, and slid it over John’s chest, watching to see how fast John’s nipples turned into stiff little peaks. Instantaneous. 

“The glass dildo is inanimate,” he speculated, swiping the muff back up along the side of John’s arm.

“Not exactly the same,” breathed John. “You know, that actually feels quite nice.”

“I told you so.”

John closed his eyes and relaxed, smiling to himself. Sherlock loved to see his lover like this, relaxed, happy, the worry lines on his forehead and between his brows relaxed, his pulse racing in his throat, his cock stiff and proud. Without his tucked-in shirts and frumpy cardigans, John looked younger. Sherlock absolutely adored him. 

John shivered at all the right stimuli, laughed when the fur tickled him, and squirmed as the detective traced it over his erogenous zones. “So,” he eventually said, “I can’t believe I’m actually condoning this, but what you were doing earlier…”

“...Fucking a muff…”

John’s giggles were renewed afresh and they laughed at the absurdity that was their lives. “...Yeah, right, fucking a muff,” he managed to stammer out. “So that felt...that was, um. Jesus, Sherlock.”

Sherlock swiftly inverted the muff in a blur of long fingers, grey fur, and soft silk. 

“No, wait. I…” John blushed, a pinkish tinge blooming across his cheeks which were by now sporting a good day’s worth of stubble. “You.” He sat up, taking the muff from Sherlock and kissing him softly on the mouth. “On you.”

Sherlock shot John a look that clearly read _scandalous, you naughty boy_ before manoeuvring himself so he was propped up semi-supine against the headboard, supported by pillows. He spread his legs and helped John position himself between them so they were facing each other and close enough to kiss. 

“Close your eyes,” said John, as he teased the tip of his lover’s cock with the opening of the muff. “But I want you to do it,” John whispered from in front of him. “So I can watch.” 

Sherlock smiled and brought his hands up, one roaming over John’s thigh as the other took hold of the fur-lined object. The sensation of fur against the sensitive skin of his penis was almost ticklish, but not quite; instead, he could best describe it as soft, soft and warm, but not in the way a hand or mouth was. Keeping his eyes closed, he focused on the different sensations produced by various pressures and speeds; moving the muff up and down on his cock felt a bit different from actually thrusting up into it. It wasn’t tight by any means, and he wouldn’t be able to actually achieve orgasm from the act, but it was intensely arousing. He was vaguely aware that John was touching his legs, running his palms over the hair on his calves up to the fleshy part of his thighs and then inward to fondle his testicles. The inside of the muff was beginning to get slightly damp and he was ready to abandon it for something _more_ when John shuddered and breathed out hard. 

“Will I fit in there, too?” he asked.

Sherlock groaned and opened his eyes to find John slightly out of breath, staring at him with dark eyes. A kiss was in order, and a kiss was had before Sherlock managed to move them both. With reverent hands, Sherlock took John’s hard cock and guided it to where the edge of the muff rested against his balls. With a bit of repositioning, he managed to get John inside as well. 

If the walls of 221B had eyes, they would have averted them now. They looked like something out of the Kama Sutra: a human crab with a very unusual hat. 

“That’s,” started John, “that’s…” He didn’t finish.

Neither could Sherlock, who was lost in the dual sensation of the soft fur of the muff and the hot velvet of his lover’s erection against his own. 

“Not so bad,” John finally stammered. “Here, let me.” He replaced Sherlock’s hand on the muff with his own, and began a slow rhythm with it. Encased in the tunnel of fur, their cocks rubbed and bumped companionably. 

The thing about sex with John (as opposed to his previous lovers who were not really lovers at all and whom he mostly deleted ages ago) was that John managed to _do something_ to the center of his chest. Sometimes they just had quick and dirty sex - the kind that was impromptu and perhaps done mostly clothed and sometimes even during cases, if Sherlock could turn his brain off for a bit and divert the blood flow from one head to, well, another. Those were fun, improvised romps that usually left John feeling pleased with himself and Sherlock wired with newfound energy. But when they were like this, together, at night, in the relative safety of their own bedroom, with no pressing cases, Sherlock found himself willingly giving into feelings he once considered foolish, pointless, and stupid. Now, as he watched John’s face, Sherlock’s heart unfolded, uncoiled, and stretched itself against his consciousness, singing as it blossomed.

While John did enjoy penetrative sex, more often than not Sherlock was the receiving partner, simply because they seemed to naturally end up that way. John had awkwardly asked him the first time they had sex whether Sherlock was a top or a bottom, and he’d made it clear that he was indeed versatile. Sex with John, however, had turned him into an insatiable bottom. Sherlock loved the feeling of being full of him, John’s back up against his or holding his legs or clinging to his shoulders, the way John knew exactly the right angles and sensitive spots. John did _things_ with his hips. John was strong. John was determined. John could fuck him so relentlessly that he saw stars or make love to him so tenderly he wanted to weep. Sherlock thought John was very, very good at sex.

But for whatever biological or chemical --or romantic-- reason, right now Sherlock was not, for once, craving the feeling of John, hard and hot, inside his body. 

Quite the opposite, actually. 

He removed the muff from John’s hand (it was getting sticky now, anyway), discarded it somewhere on the bed and promptly forgot about it. 

“I want to be in you,” he murmured against John’s lips. “Please. Let me be in you.” 

“Yes,” breathed John. “Oh, fuck yes.”

***

Sherlock said things. He said things that made electricity race down John’s spine, made him shiver and twitch. Sherlock said things that made John’s balls throb and his pulse race, made him go boneless and spread his legs. 

And, occasionally, Sherlock would forget that he was British, throw all his reserve right out the window and not-so-gently manhandle his lover into his favourite position. 

John would blame the manhandling later for not realising that the muff had been inadvertently squashed between his body and the mattress. He honestly hadn’t noticed it. It was hard to notice much when he was so turned on and Sherlock was fumbling around in the drawer of the bedside table for lube.

Through trial and error, they’d found that John was most comfortable with a certain brand of massage oil than anything else; the smell was pleasant, its viscosity perfect, and one generous application usually lasted the entire time. Unlike Sherlock, who, under John’s gentle ministrations, opened easily, his anus relaxing nearly on touch, John took a while. Which was perfectly all right with him because his lover was incredibly skilled with both his fingers and tongue and the whole process felt _fantastic_. While several of his former girlfriends weren’t afraid of a bit of backdoor play, it was usually John who was knocking on the door. Not that he wasn’t up for it. It was pleasant, but in an extraneous kind of way. A teasing fingertip at the anus during a blowjob was like a spicy, exotic condiment on a very enjoyable dinner. With Sherlock, though. It wasn’t long into their sexual relationship when John realized that Sherlock _loved_ John’s arse, that it was just as much of a turn-on for him as his cock or balls. Sherlock would moan as he fingered John, sigh as he worshipped him with his tongue, and grunt as he grasped and pushed and pulled the gluteus maximus in his large hands, felt the muscles relax, flex and work. In less than a month into their sexual relationship, John could no longer compare anything that went on back there to anything less than skipping dinner entirely and going straight to the rum-laced dessert. So much for boring John and his boring vanilla sex. He always had been a little bit of an arse man.

John willed himself to relax and controlled his breathing as he lay there enjoying the sensation of Sherlock’s fingers gently spreading his cheeks apart, his sharp intake of breath at what he saw there, then the warmth of his fingertips stroking, rubbing, teasing. Sometimes Sherlock talked up a storm when he did this, saying all sorts of things that made John’s face go hot. Other times, however, like now, Sherlock was quiet, reverent, even. Even without the usual dirty commentary, John found the little sounds Sherlock did make arousing: the lick of lips, a breath through the nose, a shuddering exhale, a swallow. 

It wasn’t long before he was squirming -- Sherlock knew exactly how to reduce his lover to begging -- but John let him take his time, control the pace. He was vaguely aware he was humping the bed by the time Sherlock finally positioned himself. Something about this moment, the feeling of Sherlock’s erection, a blunt warmth nudging against him, drove John wild. Perhaps it was the anticipation. Maybe it was simply sensitive nerve endings. Whatever the reason, it was deliriously pleasurable. Sherlock, ever aware of John’s little kinks, drew out the moment, leisurely rubbing himself against his hole, gently prodding, before finally, blessedly, sinking home.

His shoulder gave him the occasional pang if he were up on his hands and knees for too long, but John found that flat on the bed like this, Sherlock’s strong body above him, was more comfortable than he had suspected it would be. John didn’t like being fenced in; he never had, even before a soldier’s training made him wary of tight spaces. Somehow, however, he occasionally craved Sherlock’s weight on him, and there was something very sexy about the way his lover wrapped his arms under John’s own, holding him tight, or grabbing his hands, twining their fingers together as he thrust into him from behind. Sometimes Sherlock took his time this way, moving slowly, undulating himself against John’s spine and backside before turning them both to their sides and reaching around to John’s front so they could finish nearly together. Tonight, though, that slow lovemaking was apparently not on Sherlock’s agenda.

He held himself still; John could feel Sherlock’s heartbeat through his back, felt the hot fullness of his lover deep inside.. Sherlock’s curly head was tucked into the space between John’s shoulder and jaw. 

“Sorry,” he rasped, “too much buildup. I’ve got to…”

John pushed back in response. “Do it, love.”

Sherlock let out a low moan before completely giving in to his body’s baser instincts. The next thing he knew, John was trying not to get pushed into the headboard. Sherlock was making a holy racket above him, grunting like some kind of beast. Good God, it was sexy. John let his eyes roll back into his head at the intensity. Between a stimulated prostate, the friction of the sheets against his cock, and the heavy, solid, muscular form of Sherlock sweating against his back, he did his best to hang on. It might not have been more than minute of frantic, forceful coupling before Sherlock lost it, groaning “Oh _fuck_ John!” loud enough for anyone strolling down Baker Street to hear and holding John so tightly that he was half-afraid of a dislocated shoulder. 

Sherlock must not have even finished before he was back to manhandling, and before John knew it, he was being forcibly rolled from his front to his back so that he lay on Sherlock’s stomach. How Sherlock managed to keep them connected was a miracle, but soon there were large, warm hands on his cock and within a few sloppy pulls and several deep thrusts, John was coming as well, gasping for air and only vaguely aware of his own semen landing hotly across his chest. 

It was an intense orgasm to say the least. Maybe it was the novel position, maybe Sherlock was hitting something inside him that had never been hit before, but John felt like even his very _skin_ was affected by it, like each of his hair follicles was coming, too. Well, maybe not coming, but twitching, or...something. It was hard to pinpoint when every part of him seemed to be spasming in pleasure. Fuck-ing hell.

Eventually the subtle aftershocks of his orgasm began to fade. Oddly enough, the weird feeling on his chest wasn’t waning, and neither was a strange sensation on his cock. Intense orgasm, indeed. 

“John?”

“Mmm?” John lay, completely sated and rather limp, on top of his lover. “Am I too heavy?”

Sherlock scoffed beneath him and nuzzled at his ear. “No.” Then, softly, “Was I too rough?”

“Nope. Perfect.” John shivered and _squeezed_ a little bit around where Sherlock was still buried in him for assurance. Sherlock shuddered in response and held him a bit tighter. 

“John?”

“Mmmmmmm?”

“I want to tell you something. I…” Sherlock’s voice was soft and hesitant. “I want you to know that…”

John made a soft, encouraging sound and tried to ignore a mild itch that was troubling his belly. Sometimes it took Sherlock a while to get it out. That was okay. 

“I’m trying to tell you that...I’m lying on something.”

John smiled. His chest felt warm. “You’re trying to tell me you’re lying on something?”

“There’s something underneath...” 

Sherlock rolled them both onto their sides and pulled out. John winced (that never seemed incredibly pleasant) and stretched. What was up with his skin? A hot shower was definitely in order, or he would be sore tomorrow. To his left, Sherlock was tugging at something.

John dragged a hand over his chest and belly. He’d got himself good that time. Usually Sherlock was a better catch (Sherlock enjoyed the smell of John’s semen and sometimes refused to wash his hands afterward just so he could steeple his fingers under his nose and inhale later). It must be drying already - sure was itchy. His eyes still closed in post-coital lethargy, John absently rubbed his fingers together. 

But the texture. The texture was _all wrong._

Suddenly wide awake and rather concerned, John swiftly sat up and looked down. 

In the soft lamplight he could see, along with his own spunk and sweat, hundreds of short, blue-grey hairs, and the beginnings of what was going to be a spectacular case of hives, from chest to cock. 

He immediately looked to his left, where a sex-dishevelled consulting detective was gingerly holding what remained of Mrs. Hudson’s vintage chinchilla-fur muff.

Abruptly the mild itch became nearly unbearable. John breathed in through his nose and glared at his lover. One day it would be amusing. But right now, John could think of nothing other than the fact that Sherlock had, once again, convinced him to do something ludicrous that, once again, ended up with him being very uncomfortable. Anything Sherlock was going to say was long forgotten as John very deliberately scratched at his belly, which was turning a blotchy pink. 

Sherlock worried his lip. “It would appear,” he said, “that you are having a mild allergic reaction. I didn’t know you were allergic to chinchilla.”

“Allergic to chinchilla,” John began, in the it’s-not-all-fine voice he reserved for particularly dire situations. “I’m fucking allergic…” He took a deep breath and released it. “...to fucking chinchilla.” 

“It’s likely just from rubbing against it; you’re not allergic to rabbit.”

John gesticulated wildly. “I _know_ that!” he all but yelled.

Sherlock’s eyebrows came together in concern. “But it was a really good shag. The shag. You, I mean. Not this.” He waved the muff. A sad little tuft of hair fell from the split seam and onto the floor.

“Sherlock…” John warned.

“I love you!”

“Oh, that’s not going to…”

In a fury of naked limbs, Sherlock lept from the bed, threw open the window, and sent the ruined muff to the same fate as the offensive peacock feather, sailing out into the night and into the middle of Baker Street. He shut the window, drew the curtains, and stood expectantly.

John shivered at the blast of cold air, but calmly climbed out of bed. 

“I’m having a bath,” he announced, pointing a finger in Sherlock’s direction, “and you’d better hope to God we have porridge oats left and that you haven’t used the last of the Benedryl.”

 

***

 

Mrs. Turner was always observant, even if it was late and she and Mrs. Hudson had perhaps had one too many glasses of wine during their evening soiree. They strolled up Baker Street arm-in-arm, as they did when they were young and reckless, in their dancing days. And then, when they were nearly at Mrs Hudson’s door, Mrs Turner paused. Something out of the ordinary had captured her attention and she s had to see what it was. She promised herself that she simply could not take in one more stray, but it was a poor, injured kitten out here in this awful cold, well.

She needn't have worried. The dark object lying by the kerb was most decidedly _not _a kitten.__

__“Oh, look! I wonder how this got here!” It had clearly been run over a few times, and it was turned curiously inside out; a side seam had split, and it was a bit crusty on one end where something had dried. But the object in question was a ladies’ muff, just like ones that were in fashion ages ago._ _

__“Good heavens,” said Mrs. Hudson, upon realising exactly whose muff it was, “give that here.” Much to Mrs. Turner’s surprise, Mrs. Hudson grabbed it and threw it into a nearby litter bin. “Probably been lying around for weeks. Full of lice or worse,” she explained._ _

__“Maybe someone will come looking for it?” Mrs. Turner suggested as Mrs. Hudson unlocked the door to 221._ _

__“No one wants that old thing. If it was out on the street, it was there for a good reason.” If her eyes flitted to the floor above her, it really couldn’t be helped. “ _Filthy_ ,” she added knowingly. “Trust me.”_ _

__

__***_ _

__

__Sometime around 3am, John gathered his pride, finished sulking, and crawled into bed with Sherlock, who had at least had had the decency to stay in his bedroom and let John pace about the sitting room muttering to himself for the better part of the night._ _

__Sherlock could tell that most of the anger had burned away. John no longer radiated the frustration he had earlier. Now he smelled of tea and shampoo and porridge oats and cortisone cream. Sherlock was used to John being angry with him; he knew exactly how to put John on the defensive, invoke his wrath, incur his ire, and have a good laugh at his expense. It used to be an amusing exercise. Since they’d become lovers, however, Sherlock didn’t find irritating John as enjoyable. Especially in bed. Apologies were usually called for under such conditions. He took a breath to begin as John slipped between fresh, chinchilla-free sheets._ _

__John beat him to it. “We shall never speak of this,” said John, but without the heat of earlier. “This shall be the thing that you will never, ever, regardless of how inebriated or angry with me you may get, refer to.”_ _

__Sherlock nodded. “Understood.”_ _

__“Nothing, I repeat, _nothing_ , that comes from or off an animal will never grace this bed again.”_ _

__“So the leather…”_ _

__“Sherlock.”_ _

__Sherlock waited until John’s breathing evened out before daring to shuffle closer. John stiffened, then relaxed._ _

__“What were you trying to tell me earlier?”_ _

__“Nothing.”_ _

__“Sure?”_ _

__Sherlock huffed. “I was going to say thank you. For being... willing.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Seems irrelevant now.”_ _

__“Um, you’re welcome?”_ _

__“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to. Itch.”_ _

__“I know.”_ _

__“John?”_ _

__“Mmmm?”_ _

__“I don’t think your penis likes muffs. Not anymore.”_ _

__John gave a sleepy chuckle and let Sherlock snuggle up behind him._ _

__“And I promise never to let mine near one again.”_ _

__“I think that’s wise,” said John, wiggling his hips until they fit together, Sherlock curled around his back, his genitals nestled snugly in the space between John’s backside and thighs. “See,” he said, “it’s perfect right there.”_ _

__Sherlock agreed._ _

__“Go to sleep, love,” said John, yawning._ _

__Sherlock did._ _


End file.
